"Ah, then I will fly to the President of Vice's quarters and assist him in his decision-making. I guarantee that he will make whatever decision you desire, O wise one." Chiun bowed.
Smith sank back into his chair. He had long ago given up trying to explain the democratic process to Chiun, who still harbored the secret desire that Smith would one day unleash him on the executive branch, the better to install Harold Smith the First, rightful Emperor of America, in the Oval Office.
"No," said Smith. "The decision is the Vice-President's. If he is elected."
"If?" Chiun stroked his wispy beard concernedly.
"There is a chance that he won't be. The Democratic nominee might be elected instead."
"And what does this other person think?" Chiun inquired.
"He does not know about CURE. We'll have to await the election results before we know anything."
"Then let us see that this possibly open-minded person achieves the eagle throne," Chiun said brightly.
Smith removed his glasses and rubbed bleary eyes. "That, too, is out of the question," he said.
"I could do it without your express command. I could take a vacation, and what I do on my own time is my own business. I have watched the hearings on television. I understand now how your government works. Let me be your Colonel South. You will have complete deniable plausibility. "
"Plausible deniability," Smith corrected. "And that is not the way the American government operates. We don't have palace coups or anything of that sort here. Why do you think America has lasted over two hundred years?"
Chiun shrugged politely. He did not say what he thought. That his ancestors had served Egypt and Rome and Persia for longer stretches of time than a mere two centuries. That two centuries was scarcely time enough in which to form a stable government. That obviously it would take much longer for America, where the rulers change every few years, preventing any one man from learning the job well enough to be good at it. To Chiun, America was an upstart nation. Politically it was a mess. Smith's own words proved that. He was saying that the Master of Sinanju might not be able to count on future employment from America simply because its ruler was about to change. Again.
The Master of Sinanju's hazel eyes narrowed in thought. More than anything, he wanted to prevent Remo's return to Sinanju. The last time, he had coerced Remo into staying for the duration of the current contract. The same trick might not work a second time, but Chiun felt he had nothing to lose. Returning to Sinanju and retirement was the same as submitting to an early death. Back in Sinanju, the villagers had shifted their allegiance from Chiun to Remo, ignoring the Master of Sinanju completely. Worse, Remo was poised to marry a woman he had known only days before he had decided to marry her. And although Mah-Li was a good woman, sweet and pure of heart, the marriage threatened Chiun's close relationship with Remo. And Chiun was not ready to accept a subordinate position in Remo's life.
"Is there not a period of transition during the passing of the line of succession?" asked Chiun after a moment.
"Yes. The new President is elected in November, but does not actually take office until the following January."
"Then there is a period of three months in which you may have need of our services," said Chiun happily.
"Yes," Smith admitted slowly. "But as you know, things have been very quiet over the last year. I hardly think that anything crucial will come up, although one never knows. The truth is, Master of Sinanju, even if we are not ordered to disband, CURE may no longer need an enforcement arm."
"Nonsense," snapped the Master of Sinanju. "An assassin is as indespensable as breathing. But let us accept your argument for the moment. If you, as you say, fear the termination of your office, then there is no loss in renegotiating now. If you are laid off, Remo and I will go our separate ways."
"I'm afraid we can't negotiate Remo's role at this time," Smith pointed out. "The current President believes him to be dead. Killed during that crisis with the Soviets last year, remember?"
"We will discuss Remo's role at a later date, then," Chiun said firmly, settling onto the rug.
Smith, knowing that was the signal that negotiations had formally begun, joined him on the floor, a yellow legal pad on his lap. He held a number-two pencil poised to record the terms.
"I propose renewing our contract under its present terms. No additional payment is required," Chiun said loftily, certain that Smith would jump at the chance. Chiun had stuck him with a substantial increase every year for the last decade.
Smith hesitated. His mouth opened to say yes, but he snapped it shut before the word escaped.
"Too high," Smith said flatly.
"Too..." Chiun began, his face clouding. He restrained himself. In the entire history of the House of Sinanju, no Master has ever renewed a contract at terms inferior to those of the preceding year. But Chiun desperately wanted this contract renewed, so he kept his anger within him. Next year-if there was a next year in America-he would more than make up for this indignity. "Make a counteroffer, then," Chiun said stiffly.
Smith considered. "I really think you should make the next offer," he said craftily.
Chiun thought rapidly. He knocked forty percent off the basic terms, and calculated the loss. It made him cringe, but he offered that amount to Smith. "No more, no less," he added.
"Another ten-percent reduction might persuade me," Smith said unconcernedly.
The Master of Sinanju leapt to his feet in a swirl of kimono skirts. His cheeks puffed out. His fingernails, like a thousand flashing knives, made dangerous patterns in the air. Smith recoiled.
The, getting a grip on himself, the Master of Sinanju gracefully sank back onto the rug like a dandelion see alighting on a lawn.
When he spoke, his soft voice contained the merest breath of menace, like poisoned honey.
"Done," Chiun said.
"Draw up the contract and I will look it over," said Smith.
Stonily the Master of Sinanju found his feet and executed a brittle bow, and without another word he walked stiff-legged from the office.
Harold Smith returned to his desk and allowed himself a rare smile. Never in all his years as director of CURE had he gotten the better of the Master of Sinanju. Smith was a parsimonious man. But each year he had regularly shipped enough of the taxpayers' money to the tiny fishing village of Sinanju to refloat the collective debts of many third-world countries.
Too bad that it was all probably going to be for nothing, he though as he brought up the CURE computer terminal for a final news-digest check before going home for the evening.
The first item wiped the remnants of the smile from his dry-as-dust face.
It was the news summary of a speech given by the Democratic presidential candidate, Governor Michael Princippi. The gist of his speech was a pledge to transfuse money in the social-security system from the intelligence budget. Specifically, Princippi promised to go after the countless "black projects" that were built into the federal budget, the namelsss accounting fictions that enabled the federal government to channel billions of tax dollars yearly into covert operations and defense projects so sensitive that they could not be named or described for Congress except behind closed doors.
"Let's shine a light into the so-called black budget and see who and what we find," Governor Princippi was quoted as saying.
Smith clutched the edge of his oak desk as if to get a grip on himself. First the Vice-President and now this. It was obvious that this speech was a tit-for-tat response to the Vice-President's call for an end to rogue intelligence operations. It did not mean that Governor Princippi knew about CURE. That would be a worst-case scenario if one ever existed.